


Lead Me

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance, Werewolf Biology, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Mates, canon-divergent, de!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-07 04:25:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: Voldemort—no longer in need of his werewolf army after the War is won, and with a new weapon at his disposal—enacts a 'kill-on-sight' law. A secret about her heritage that came to light during the altercation at Malfoy Manor forces Hermione to run and hide, same as the werewolves. Soon, she finds herself relying on Fenrir Greyback, and for more than just survival. *SPORADIC UPDATES*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> 1) I am taking a social media break for the next two weeks or so. I will be off FB and will not be posting any chapters during that time. For those of you who don't know, I struggle with anxiety. I don't like to give out personal-life info that way, but there's so much open discussion these days about anxiety, I figure at least let you guys know there is a reason behind my pending absence. I mostly have a handle on it, but from time to time, it can become hard to tell what's valid for me to feel and what is my anxiety rearing its head, my consistent submersion in social media is not helping with that. I just need some time to kind of detox, desaturate, however you want to see it. I'm hoping that when I come back, I'll have a new chapter for all my WIPs. Hoping. Hoping is the operative word *insert 'yeesh' face here.* I'll talk to you all again on or around March 14th.
> 
> 2) Post-War AU. Canon-divergent from when the Snatchers found the Golden Trio.
> 
> 3) Updates will be sporadic (my break aside). Chapter lengths will vary (some may be over 5k words long, some may not break 2k).
> 
> 4) This story contains a backstory element I came up with that has also appeared in my Fenmione/Dramione fic "Wolf's Blood" in regard to Fenrir's activity and behavior during the War, as well one (that is not solely mine, but is a theory quite few people in the fandom believe) about Hermione's heritage that appears in the majority of my Hermione-werewolf fics.
> 
> CANON DATE REFERENCE: The Skirmish at Malfoy Manor occurs roughly around Easter, 1998 (which was 12th of April), making it approximately 3 weeks between then and the Battle of Hogwarts (2nd of May).
> 
> Fenrir Greyback Fancast: Jason Momoa
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters and make no profit—in any form—from the creation of this work.

**Chapter One**  

It had happened while they were shagging. As she felt it, as she became aware of what she was doing, she understood . . . . 

All this time, she'd still had some little kernel of doubt buried in the back of her thoughts. Some tiny voice letting out muted screams that it wasn't true. She wasn't one of them, she couldn't be. That the last two months and three weeks hadn't happened. She was a human. She was a Muggle-born. She was  _not_ a girl descended from werewolves. She did  _not_  have wolf's blood coursing through her veins.

She did _not_  feel driven by the same instincts that they drove them, only manifesting in her life in different ways because of her conditioning by the Muggle—and later the Wizarding—world.

Yet, there was this . . . .

As he'd shifted back to sit on his heels and pulled her with him, straddling his lap. As his hands clamped tight over her hips, rocking her against him. As she'd let her head tip back and her eyes drift closed at the blissful sensation of an orgasm sweeping through her . . . .

Everything crashed down over her in that moment, and not in a good way.

Pulling back, that sweet feeling horribly cut short, she stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. She could feel the wetness on her lips, could taste the bittersweet copper on her tongue.

As that orgasm had swept through her, Hermione had snapped her head forward again and sank her teeth into Fenrir's pectoral muscle.

Being who and what he was, the pain hadn't affected him in what she'd consider a normal way. He'd choked out a delighted gasp and then a breath hissed from between clenched teeth as he tightened his hold on her.

It was that moment. It was how perfect it had felt, in the quiet of night beside the roaring fire. The two of them alone in the forest. The feel of his bare skin pressed to hers as those amber eyes of his had held hers in  _that_ look . . . .

Their limbs wrapped around one another as they pushed each other over the edge. Somehow, in that moment, biting him—biting him hard enough to draw blood—had seemed a perfectly logical, rational,  _natural_ thought.

As she pulled back to stare up at him he froze, already aware she was panicking over what she'd just done. He knew she'd hate it if he pointed out how seeing her like this—her chestnut eyes huge and his blood dripping from her lips—only made him want to throw her down and keep going.

Holding back a growl, he slid his hands up from her hips to cup her face. "It's okay."

But those eyes, the ones he was so sure would somehow be the death of him, started to well up as she gaped at him. "No . . . no. It's not. It's not okay, don't make this  _normal_ , please!"

A heavy sigh rumbling out of him, he carefully plucked her off of him, extracting himself, and pulled across his lap. Cradling her petite frame against his, he made gentle cooing noises—she imagined these were the sort of sounds wolves made to soothe anxious pups.

"That's what you're most scared of, isn't it? Not what you did, but the feeling that it  _could_ be normal?"

"Shut up," she said, sniffling, though her tears garbled her words a bit. "Don't make this make sense." Yet, even as she half-yelled at him, she curled her arms around his as he held her and ducked her head beneath his chin.

He held in a chuckle—no, no, she wouldn't appreciate him laughing just now. "I can smell your fear, you know. You keep telling yourself that if this isn't normal, if this isn't actually  _you_ , maybe you can go back to your old life."

"I know it's stupid."

Fenrir made another soothing noise as he rubbed one of his large, rough palms over her back in gentle circles. "No, not stupid. Wholly unrealistic, perhaps, but not stupid."

"That's not very helpful."

"More helpful than placating your little pity-party, Sweetness."

Hermione knew he was right about that. She didn't want him to be right, but that didn't change the fact that he  _was_. "I know it's probably really shit of me to be so afraid when this is what you are, but it makes me feel like everything will change if I accept it about myself."

There was more to it than that. He was perfectly aware she just didn't want to say it. That if she accepted her heritage completely rather than just in theory, she'd embrace it. She'd want it. She might actually want him to bite her. She'd have to confront  _everything_  that had happened.

Okay, perhaps this was a good moment for placation, he decided. Just a  _little_ , though—he'd mix it in with the hard truth.

Tightening his hold on her, he let out another heavy, rumbling sigh as he said, "It won't. It feels that way because it'll change how you see yourself."

She let her eyes drift closed. Listening to the steady, thundering beat of his heart beneath her ear, feeling the warm press of his chest against her cheek, she reminded herself that from the moment she'd first heard his whispered words in her ear, some part of her had known the truth.

Yet it hadn't prepared her for anything that followed.

* * *

**_Near-Three Months Earlier_ **

He had known the moment he saw her . . . the moment he was close enough to smell her. He knew the girl who called herself Penelope Clearwater had wolf's blood. The Dark Lord was a shit . . . well, more so than usual. Only letting him eat  _people_. Fucking hell, they called _him_  savage, but revered the one who charmed him so he could only do as he was bid by the caster? And people wondered why he hated humans so.

But he hadn't wanted to eat her. Oh, no. He said he did, but that was just a cover for what he really wanted. Even in the state the Dark Lord had forced him to exist, he knew in a split-second of catching her scent that he wanted to keep her. Protect her.  _Have_ her. All the things that would mean she was  _his._

He'd leaned close as the crew with him had laughed and leveled threats while trying to scare them into talking, while trying to figure out who was who. He'd breathed the words in her ear, "Shit's going to get rough. Play along."

It was the best warning he could work up with his mind so fragmented by hunger and need.

But she'd only blinked up at him, her fear not changing or lessening a single iota. That was when he understood. The girl had no idea what she was. The girl who claimed to be a Half-blood but turned out to be a Muggle-born.

No one would care what became of her. Only one way to ensure she survived this.

He'd played up his ferocity just for them. He talked about how much he liked flesh like hers. Wondered allowed what her skin would taste like as he took bites out of her . . . .

By the time they dragged those three into Malfoy Manor, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he wanted to eat her or add her to the army. No doubt that anyone they were about to see would mind handing the Mudblood witch over to him.

Hermione could feel it. She wasn't sure what it was. But something in the way he looked at her, something about the little internal shiver that rumbled through her core whenever he talked, something in the very nearness of him spoke to her on some primal level she didn't quite grasp.

When he told her to play along, it only added to her confusion about him—to her fear over getting caught. Play along with  _what?_

Was she supposed to be doing something? Respond somehow to his gross and unsettling threats? He was a horrible, savage creature, just as Harry'd said, just as the stories of him portrayed.

And yet . . .  _something ._  . . .

She didn't know why, but as she'd been separated from the others after arriving at Malfoy Manor, her attention kept flicking back to him. Even while Bellatrix tortured her, she found her gaze fixed on him. Found how odd it was that he could not seem to look upon the scene. With his storied savagery, this should be amusing to him.

But again, in the way he couldn't watch . . . . In the way he gripped his wand, white-knuckled while he listened to her screaming . . .  _something_. . . .

Then, Harry and Ron had burst back into the room and all hell broke loose.

Bellatrix had pulled her up, had held that blade to her throat. But as the threat of taking Hermione's life had fallen from the Dark witch's lips, her rescue came from the source she least expected.

Fenrir Greyback clamped his hand around Bellatrix's, peeling the knife from Hermione's neck, but not before Bellatrix had managed to gouge her captive's skin with it.

His voice was so thick with growls, his words were barely intelligible as he said in a seething whisper, "I had to put up with her screams, but no more. You'll  _not_  kill one of my kind, woman!"

Bellatrix gaped at him in a mix of shock and fury. A heartbeat passed before she realized he wasn't relinquishing his hold on the knife.

As she brought up her wand in her free hand—it wasn't her wand hand, but it would do for this—he realized he would not be the one to get the girl out of here. He shoved Hermione toward her friends.

In the confusion and tumult to follow, Bellatrix forced Greyback to his knees, screaming at him for his disrespect, bellowing about how the Dark Lord would make him suffer for this.

The last thing Hermione heard as Ron caught her stumbling body in his arms and Dobby Apparated them away was Fenrir Greyback growling back at Bellatrix about how she had no authority over any werewolf. "The girl included," he said.

Everything had happened in such an odd, strained daze after that. Dobby—poor, dear Dobby passing away like that. Harry torturing himself for not being able to save their friend. Ron trying to apologize for not being able to save her from Bellatrix. Really, there was no way they could've, so Hermione didn't think there was anything to apologize for.

Still in that daze as she convalesced, Harry and Ron asked her about what Greyback had told Bellatrix. She filled them in on what he'd said when he pulled Bellatrix's blade from her throat.

They both guffawed at that. They assumed Greyback had only meant he wanted her for his army, wanted her as some sort of trophy-kill, maybe.

But Hermione knew in her gut it was more than that.

She heard his words over and over in the back of her mind in the days to follow. She remembered how oddly natural it had felt that night she'd howled to distract Remus—something that shouldn't have ever worked. She didn't have the vocal cords of a ruddy wolf! It should've sounded fake to him. She never thought on it. She'd absorbed that information about werewolves Snape had given them more readily than any other subject she'd ever researched. She'd felt so personally betrayed when she covered for Remus' condition only to find out he'd been helping Sirius, suspected of such heinous crimes back then.

And then there were all those suspicious feelings she experienced in Greyback's closeness.

Hermione had no idea how, but she knew in her gut . . . . There  _was_  something of the wolf in her.

Worse, now the Death Eaters knew it, too. If she was caught again, they'd probably consign her to being bitten to bring out the beast in her. Someone like her was probably guaranteed to change, no risking death when the curse took hold.

But she ignored the sense of her own thoughts. She didn't want to know the truth of it. She didn't want to believe. And so, she went along with Harry and Ron. Told herself she'd misread everything, even her own gut instincts.

She didn't see him again until the final battle. In the middle of everything, she couldn't spare the time to think about what it'd felt like to see him tangled up with Lavender Brown. Sick and odd and twisted as that was. She'd caught him with a hex without a second thought, propelling him away from the other witch, and kept running.

All the chaos and screaming and panic around her . . . .

And then Harry fell. Not in the way anyone feared he might. Hermione had no idea what had happened in the woods, but now, in front of the Death Eaters and their foul ilk, in front of the Light, Harry Potter bent knee to the Dark Lord and loudly proclaimed his fealty.

She didn't have time to think, a sensation like she'd been punched in the stomach rocking through her. Ron and the others were backpedaling in horror from the spectacle, as though the entire world had ground to a halt. And it might as well have. Nothing made sense to Hermione in that moment.

Nothing aside from Voldemort's laughter registered in her ears while he clasped Harry's left forearm in his free hand. While he pressed the tip of his wand to the inside of Harry's wrist, the Dark Mark exploding forth along his skin for all to see.

As Harry rose, the Dark Lord declared that those who still stood against them would be shown no mercy. Imprisonment would not be an option for those who continued the struggle.

But she could not take a tally of who fought on, or who capitulated. Because the Dark Lord's next words changed her world as surely as Harry's betrayal had shattered it.

"The werewolves," he said to Harry and other Death Eaters. He turned, pinning his gaze somewhere over Hermione's shoulder. Her breath thundered out of her lungs as she turned to look. Fenrir Greyback stood a meter behind her, his amber eyes wide in realization as he stared back at Voldemort.

"With Potter on my side, their force is no longer necessary." Hermione could swear there was a strange light of malicious joy in the serpentine wizard's eyes as he continued, "I want them dead. Every. Last. One."

Hermione thought sure her brain had shut down. Harry knew what Greyback had said about her. Hell, for all the Death Eaters knew, she had secretly been a werewolf all along.

"We have to move."

In a daze, she turned her head, meeting Greyback's eyes. Her attention fell to the clawed fingers of his outstretched hand.

Growling, he spat out the words, "It's me or  _them_!"

She couldn't help herself. One last time, she looked back at Harry. He moved as one with the Death Eaters, following the Dark Lord's bidding as they chased down the werewolves still on the battlefield. The ones who'd not heard Voldemort's command.

Swallowing hard, she put her hand in Greyback's, a tear falling as he pulled her side-along away from the scene.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depiction of Fenrir's appearance prior to the final scene of this chapter based on Harry's observation of him from the Deathly Hallows book.

**Chapter Two**

Fenrir came to slowly, his head pounding and his insides positively screaming at him. He could smell burning wood and hear the crackle of a fire.

Last he recalled was appearing with the girl in the furthest-away wooded area he could think of in the moment. His . . . dietary restriction left him feeling sick on far too many occasions, and he didn't use Apparition often. Perhaps he should've realized that the stomach-twisting sensation which accompanied that form of magical travel would kick that typical nauseous state up a notch. Enough to knock him cold, however, was a bit of a surprise.

But not so much of a surprise as waking to find a roaring fire, a set tent, and the girl still with him, seated on the opposite side of the flames.

She had a book open, and appeared to be scribbling away furiously. While she wrote whatever it was, the witch carried on a rather animated, albeit silent, conversation with herself.

"Thought you'd make a break for it first change you got, little girly."

Hermione stopped talking to herself, but didn't appear startled by the suddenness of his currently sandpaper-like voice slicing the quiet of the night.

She shook her head, not even gracing him with a glance. "Not exactly an overwhelming number of places I can go, or people I can turn to without endangering someone I care about, or putting myself right in some Death Eater's crosshairs. Harry's turned sides. He knows how I think and over the last, oh, eight or nine months, has learned the places I run to. Until I get him away from You Know Who and, I dunno, beat some sense back into his ruddy thick skull, it's best I not make the decisions on where to hide."

Fenrir could only stare at her a moment, his features seeming pinched in a perpetual wince. "You always so pragmatic?"

"Only when I'm awake." She still had yet to look up from her writing. "And do  _not_ call me 'little girly.' Turns my bloody stomach."

"What would you rather I call you?"

Once more, the witch shook her head. "I don't really care what you call me, just not that."

"Hmm. I'll have to think up something good, then."

"You could always be _really_  daring and call me by my name."

"You know, that is a novel thought. But it'll be a no."

"It's true, isn't it?" she asked suddenly, the question coming out of the blue. "I've got werewolf blood, haven't I?"

He nodded. "I thought you knew, that's why I tried to get Bellatrix to hand you over."

She didn't know if he meant that in a good way, or a wicked one. Instead, she simply nodded back. No way to find out how that had happened at the moment. Maybe when this was all over, she could research her family tree. That was a nice, calming,  _boring_  thought.

Fenrir winced, making his already pained expression more excruciating still, as he curled over on his side. She didn't even look up. The pain tearing through his gut, announcing a hunger pang, was agonizing. "Merlin's fucking sake, I'm  _starving_."

"Hmph," she breathed out the sound. "Then you'd better content yourself with hunting up some squirrels or rabbits, or plucking a fish from the stream, because I'm the only human for who knows how far, and I am _not_  on the menu. I also have your wand, so there'll be no argument about it, either."

He chuckled, rolling to lie on his back again and closing his eyes. "Believe me, sweetness. I ever get around to eating you, it certainly won't be in the way you're thinking right now."

Her eyes shooting wide, Hermione finally did lift her gaze from her writing, the quill stilling against the page.

"Oh, hey! That works. Yep, calling you Sweetness from here on out."

She stared at the werewolf in silence, uncertain quite how she felt about his statement—and ignoring her confusion that she wasn't immediately flat-out horrified by his insinuation. Scrambling for something to say, she managed, "Whatever, still, you . . . you've got whatever you can scrounge up from the forest."

Once more he laughed, the mirthful sound just as agonized as before. "No, I really don't. Wish I did."

Closing her book on the quill, she set it aside and clasped her hands in her lap. She'd never felt less threatened in the presence of a 'savage' creature in all her life. "What does that even mean?"

Cracking one eye open, he looked over at her. Strangely surprised to find her attention actually on him, he shrugged. "The whole . . . people-eating thing? Not exactly my idea."

Her brows pinched together. "And what does  _that_  even mean?"

He pulled himself to sit up, moving slow so as not to agitate her. He could already feel her tension and anxiety winding the air as it was. "Worst kept secret of the Dark, Sweetness."

Hermione only watched him, waiting for the actual explanation.

Fenrir hesitated. He wasn't even entirely certain why; perhaps because he'd never spoken of it aloud before? Perhaps because he thought she might not believe him? Think he was making up some grotesque lie to excuse his equally grotesque actions so she might drop her guard around him.

Holding in a groan, he shifted in discomfort. "I can't eat. Anything. _Literally_  can't. Not unless the Dark Lord grants me his permission."

The witch felt her spine stiffen. "I'm . . . I'm not sure I understand."

Pursing his lips, he glanced about and scratched at his chin through his beard. "He liked the stories about me. The ones you probably know, calling me savage and all that. Said he wanted to use that to his advantage. Something to truly strike fear in his enemies hearts." His amber eyes became dull, then, unfocused. "Next thing I knew, he hit me with a  _Petrificus_ , and then slapped a charm on me."

She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a shocked gasp. Hermione was all too aware of the movement as he turned his head, his gaze locking on hers. Letting her fingers slip away from her lips, she said, "He used a charm to turn you into a cannibal?"

The werewolf shrugged, wincing with the motion. "It was a command charm. Command was I could only consume what he said, when he said."

"And he said . . .  _people_  . . . ."

He nodded, echoing her horrified whisper. "He said people."

God, she felt nauseated just hearing this! She had known all along that Voldemort was truly, deep down, dark and vile, but something as awful as  _this_? What was more . . . . As she sat here with him, as she listened to him, she realized . . . . She saw a person beneath this terrible, ferocious countenance the Dark Lord had probably nurtured and insisted upon. The matted hair, the overgrowth on his face, the blisters . . . . He was in a terrible state, now that she thought on it.

And Voldemort had only allowed him to keep existing on the flesh of people. People were . . . polluted, dirty, sickly, full of germs . . . . Fenrir Greyback was here because of that, looking like he might well keel over if she left him alone too long. The Dark Lord probably imagined he'd be forced to starve to death, now, if he couldn't be around people, chances of which were limited since the Death Eaters and their ilk were all set on orders to slaughter Greyback and his kind.

A terrible thought occurred to Hermione, then. Remus was gone, she'd seen his fallen form with her own eyes. But that still left someone behind. Someone who might well grow up to be a werewolf.

Someone recently-Marked Death Eater Harry Potter knew about. Someone utterly defenseless. It might not occur to him right away, but eventually he'd realize. And if he truly wanted to prove his new, twisted loyalty to Voldemort . . . .

"Oh, my God. Oh, no," she said in an abrupt whisper, her fingers curling into her jumper just over her heart.

"What?"

She returned her attention to him, her eyes wide and watering. Already her compassion had started winning out, but now that she saw his expression, saw the _real_ , blatant concern beneath all that hair and marred skin, she knew she had to do something about his situation.

And really, who else was going to do anything for him?

"I have to get to someone. I have to warn them to go into hiding. If I don't, something terrible could happen." She took a chance, rising from her place and rounding the fire. He watched her like one might watch a wild animal at the zoo—curious but cautious—as she drew closer, taking a seat on the ground before him. "I have no way of knowing what You Know Who is up to, or if forms of magical communication might be monitored, somehow, and I don't know if any of the survivors will be able reach them, or even be aware they're in danger, hence why I have to get to them in person. I'm going to need your help to get there."

He uttered a pained laugh, curling his arms around his midsection. "Don't think I'm in a condition to get anyone anywhere, Sweetness."

"That's why I'm going to help you, first. I've a plan."

"That was fast."

"Told you, pragmatic when awake. I'll figure out how to break the charm on you, we get you cleaned up, well enough to travel, and then you help me. If the Dark Lord really wants all werewolves dead, the Forbidden Forest is right there. They'll be rooting through there, first. It's dense, it's the best hiding place, he'll think your people fell back, hoping to conceal themselves in it. And it's huge. That buys us some time. Probably a few days, even, enough to get you on your feet and be on our way." Swallowing hard, she held out her hand. "Enough to possibly save a wholly innocent life.  _Please_."

He eyed her hand warily. "Just who is this 'wholly innocent' person we're going to risk our necks trying to get to t' warn?"

"Not them, personally, their grandmother." She shook her head, the tip of her nose stinging as she hoped, desperately, that she was wrong—hoped Harry had not fallen so far from grace that he'd do such an unspeakable thing. "It's Remus Lupin's infant son, Teddy."

Fenrir's brow furrowed in question.

"Remus fell today in battle, I know, but the last conversation we had with him, he was fretting that Teddy would inherit his curse." Her voice broke a little and she forced herself to continue. "It was an argument  _with_ Harry, in fact. I hate having to think it, but I can't leave it to chance if Harry might try to go after him as an easy target. I have to get to Teddy's grandmother. I have to tell her to take Teddy and run. Please. Help me."

Grumbling out a sigh, he shook his head. "This has trouble written all over it."

"I've been in trouble since the first day I learned I was a witch."

A strained moment passed before Fenrir grasped her hand, giving it a firm shake. "Fine. You help me, I help you."

She nodded, pressing herself to smile. First bit of good news she'd had in she couldn't even remember how long. "Okay." She extracted her hand from his and withdrew her wand. "Let's break that charm."

* * *

Harry bit out an angry sound, thumping the sole of his boot against the tree trunk. He'd circled the entire perimeter of the castle. Greyback was nowhere to be found. Hermione was nowhere to be found. And, given Greyback's fancying of the witch, Harry had a feeling they were together—whether she liked it or not.

"Something troubles you?"

Shaking his head, Harry let out a sigh. "She's gone."

"You mean your Mudblood?"

Harry nodded. He'd not waste time reminding  _Tom_  that he didn't like that term. "The others heard it. They know. They'll try to kill her with the rest of the werewolves."

"And you want, what, my dear boy?" Voldemort gripped Harry's chin with gentle fingers and turned his face. "To keep her for yourself?"

Again, Harry nodded. He didn't feel the cold grip of that bony hand, in his mind, it was warm skin, smooth and plump. Meeting Voldemort's gaze, he did not glimpse the snake-like features, or serpentine gaze, but the face of the young man he'd met those years ago, trapped within the pages of his own diary. The eyes he stared into were the rich blue of a Tom Riddle his own age.

He knew they meant two different things by the use of the term 'keep.' Harry thought it in keeping her by his side. Voldemort thought it in keeping her as a pet. Harry wasn't sure the semantics mattered, as it still equated finding her and keeping her safe . . . with  _him_ , of course, but that was obvious.

"The world is ours, now." Voldemort grinned, aware Harry saw that youthful façade. "There is nowhere she can run that we will not eventually find her." He sighed shaking his head. "I had planned to do away with the Mudbloods after the werewolves, as she's both, you must know it will take work to keep your brethren in line, should they come across her. However, I will see that she _is_  spared for you."

Harry smiled. "Thank you, My Lord."

Voldemort nodded, relinquishing his hold on the young man's face and turning in the direction of the castle. "Now, back on task."

"Yes, My Lord."

The Dark Lord stalked away, comforted by the sound of Harry Potter's voice, barking orders at the other Death Eaters scattered throughout the Forbidden Forest in his stead.

* * *

Hermione could feel it. She could feel the moment the magic binding Greyback to Voldemort's will had snapped.

As she'd worked, however, Fenrir had seemed to get a bit worse. It was a strange moment as she found herself hoping he wasn't dying.

"Okay, we're clear, it's done."

He nodded, his olive complexion gone pale and clammy. "I think I'd like some water," he said, his voice tumbling out in a breathless whisper as he smirked. "Start . . . start off light."

"Probably best until your system cleans itself out. The next twenty-four hours are going to be rough." She stood and went into the tent to get some things.

Fenrir watched her go, uttering a miserable sigh. He might talk a good game, with his facetiousness, but he was not overly hopeful of their circumstances. "The fuck are we going to pull this off?" he asked himself the question under his breath. Oh, sure, getting to one old witch and her grand-baby? Fine. He was more concerned about their continued survival after this mission.

The Dark Lord and his new little friend might not have any idea where to look for them, yet, but he wasn't certain how long they'd be able to stay under the radar. Oh, sure, if no one was looking for them, then years, but in a situation where they were being actively hunted?

"Here we go," she said, her voice full of forced cheerfulness as she brought back a cup fresh water.

He struggled to sit up straight, and she obligingly held the cup to his lips for him.

Over the next few days, Hermione saw a marked improvement in him. Not just his appetite for not-human-flesh returning in full force—thankfully, he proved a competent hunter, as she imagined the mushroom stews she'd been forced to live on during the Horcrux hunt would only make him worse—but his skin had cleared, as well. The blisters and sores from the putrid diet he'd been forced to exist on were gone.

He'd even started to clean himself up, his once matted hair now hung in long, coarse waves around his shoulders and down his back. Hermione'd hit his clothes with a cleaning charm—which he was not pleased about, in the least. Indeed, by the time he was well enough for them to get a move on to warn Andromeda, he seemed like an entirely different being from the man who had dragged them to Malfoy Manor a few weeks ago.

Fenrir had disappeared inside the tent as Hermione sorted and shrunk down her supplies to toss in her beaded bag.

"All right, let's get moving."

She nearly jumped out of her skin at his abrupt words. "Oh, of course. I'm just making sure I have every . . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked up at him.

He was tucking a blade she had no idea he'd had into the back of his robes as he held her hand mirror out for her to take back. The hair that had grown over his face, leaving his features obscured and adding to his bestial appearance was gone. The beard and mustache left behind were a bit long and roughly cut, but it was certainly a marked improvement on what he'd looked like even just a few days ago.

She could actually see his face. His . . . she swallowed hard . . . . His  _handsome_ , amber-eyed face.

His brows shot up as he waited for some response from her. "Hullo?" He waved the mirror at her.

"Oh, right," she said, giving a start and laughing at herself. She took the mirror and stowed it away with everything else.

Fenrir eyed her suspiciously. "You a' right?"

Hermione nodded, clearing her throat, though she refused to lift her gaze back to his, just now. "Fine, fine." She flicked her wand, dispelling the charm on the tent. "Just um, grab the tent and let's go."

Dismantling the tarp and pegs in series of swift, expert movements, he kept an eye on her as she began walking. Bundling it under one arm, he stood and started after her.

There was something in the way she'd looked at him just then, he thought with a snicker. He'd wait for her to realize it, maybe, feeling sure that if he pointed it out himself, she'd jump eyeball deep into denial, and didn't they have enough troubles at the moment?


End file.
